Subject: Debra

From: "claudell ulrika" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2007 10:30:59 +0300

Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Like some poor wounded wretch≈long left for dead
Away from their profundity of surface.
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
I seek, above all, in the wandering
From point to point of meaning≈open? closed?≈
Writhing their stunted limbs,
The pain of being born into matter.
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Like theirs ends? From what distant point of vision
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,